I felt like this again yesterday, when Girolamo was telling me about some Muscovites known as Capitons, who want to die, he says, “because they believe Christ will soon come into the world again to set up His kingdom, and they want to come back in His train rather than be among the multitude of sinners who will endure His wrath. The Capitons live in small groups scattered throughout Muscovy, out of reach of the authorities. In their view the whole world is now ruled by the Antichrist and inhabited by the damned — even Muscovy, and even its church, whose prayers and rituals they reject. Their leader exhorts them to let themselves die of hunger and thus avoid being guilty of suicide. But some of them are in such a hurry they do not shrink from breaking God’s law in the most atrocious manner. Not a week goes by without terrible reports coming in from one region or another of the vast country. Groups of people gather in churches or even mere barns, block up the windows and deliberately set the building on fire, so that whole families burn themselves alive amid prayers and the shrieks of children.”
Ever since Girolamo told me of these things, their images have haunted me. I think of them day and night, and keep wondering if it’s possible that all these people are dying for nothing. Can anyone really be so mistaken, and sacrifice his life so cruelly just through an error of judgement? I can’t help feeling some respect for them, though my Venetian friend says I am wrong. He compares them with ignorant beasts, and thinks their behaviour is stupid, criminal and impious. At most he feels some pity for them, but below his pity lies scorn. And when I say I find his attitude cruel, he answers that he could never be as cruel to these people as they are to themselves and their wives and children.
19 May
It may be difficult to check whether the stars are really disappearing, but my Persian friend’s story shows without a shadow of doubt that he is concerned as I am with all that’s said about this cursed year.
No, he’s much more concerned than I am. My thoughts are divided between my love, my business, and my trivial dreams and worries, and every day I have to do violence to my natural apathy if I’m not to abandon my pursuit of The Hundredth Name. I think of the Apocalypse now and again, I half believe in things, but my father brought me up in such a way that the sceptic in me saves me from any great religious outbursts — or perhaps I should say precludes any kind of constancy, whether in the exercise of reason or in the quest for chimeras.
But to return to my “prince” and friend, he listed for me today the various predictions he’s heard of concerning this year. There are many of them, and they come from every corner of the globe. Some I’m familiar with already, others not or only partly. He’s collected many more examples than I have, but I know some things he doesn’t.
Above all, of course, there are the predictions of the Muscovites and the Jews. Then those of the sectaries of Aleppo and the English fanatics. And the quite recent prophecies of a Portuguese Jesuit. In Ali’s view the most disturbing prognostications are those of the four greatest Persian astrologers, who usually disagree and compete for the favours of their ruler, but who apparently declare unanimously that this year men will call God by His Hebrew name, as Noah did, and that things will happen that have never been seen since Noah’s own day.
“Another Flood?” I asked.
“Yes, but a deluge of fire this time!”
The way he said this reminded me of my nephew Boumeh — that triumphal tone to announce the most awful calamities! As if the Creator, by letting them know what was in store, was implicitly promising them immunity.
20 May
During the night I thought again about the predictions of the Persian astrologers. Not so much the threat of another flood — you find that in all prophecies about the end of the world — but rather the allusion to the name of God, and in particular His Hebrew name. I suppose that’s the sacred Tetragrammaton that must not be uttered — if I’ve read the Bible correctly — by anyone except the high priest once a year, in the Holy of Holies, on the Day of Atonement. So what would happen if, at the behest of Sabbataï, thousands of people all over the world were to speak the ineffable name aloud? Wouldn’t Heaven be angry enough to annihilate the world and everyone in it?
I discussed all this at length today with Esfahani, who takes quite a different view. He says that if men do utter the unspeakable name they won’t be intending to defy the will of the Almighty, but on the contrary to hasten its fulfilment in the form of the end of the world and deliverance. He doesn’t seem at all put out by the fact that the so-called Messiah of Smyrna advocates this general transgression.
I asked if he thought that the Tetragrammaton revealed to Moses might be the same as the hundredth name of Allah sought by some commentators on the Koran. He was so pleased by this question that he threw an arm round my shoulders and walked me along with him for a few paces. This kind of familiarity, coming from him, rather embarrassed me.
“What a pleasure it is,” he said warmly, “to find one has a scholar as a fellow-passenger!”
I said nothing to disillusion him, though it seems to me that a real scholar, instead of having to ask such a question, would be able to provide the answer.
“Come with me!” he went on, leading the way to a little room he calls “the cubby-hole where I keep my secrets”. I suppose that before he came on board the place didn’t have a name — it was just a small space used for storing bits of damaged cargo. Now, however, the shelves are curtained, the floor is fitted with a little carpet, and the air is heavy with incense. We sat down facing one another on a couple of plump cushions. An oil-lamp hung from the ceiling. A servant brought in coffee and sweetmeats and left them on a chest to my right. On the other side was a big irregular window opening on to the blue horizon. I had a pleasant impression of being back in the bedroom I used to sleep in as a child, in Gibelet.
“Has God got a hidden hundredth name in addition to the ninety-nine we already know of?” asked Ali. “If so, what is it? Is it a Hebrew name? Or a Syriac or an Arabic one? How would we recognise it if we read it in a book or heard it? Who has known it in the past? And what powers does it confer on those who have found it out?”
He asked his questions without haste, sometimes glancing at me but more often looking out to sea, so that I was able to study his aquiline profile and painted eyebrows.
“Ever since the dawn of Islam, scholars have argued over a verse that occurs three times in similar terms in the Koran and lends itself to various interpretations.”
He quoted the phrase carefully: “Fa sabbih bismi rabbika-l-azim,” which may be translated as “Glorify the name of your Lord, the Most High”.
The ambiguity arises from the fact in Arabic the epithet “l-azim”, “the Most High”, may refer either to the Lord or to His name. In the first case, the verse is merely a normal exhortation to glorify the name of the Lord. But if the second interpretation is correct, the verse might mean “Glorify your Lord by His highest name”, which would suggest that among the names of God there is a major one which is superior to all the others, and the invoking of which produces special results.
“The argument had gone on for centuries, with the advocates of each interpretation finding, or thinking they find, proof of their own and disproof of their opponents’ case in the Koran itself, or in the various pronouncements attributed to the Prophet. And then a new and powerful argument was put forward by a scholar in Baghdad known as Mazandarani. I don’t say he managed to convince everybody. Some people still hold to their previous positions, especially as Mazandarani himself had rather a dubious reputation — he was said to practise alchemy, to use magic alphabets, and to study various occult sciences. But he had many disciples, and his house was always full of visitors. So clearly his argument undermined some certainties, and whetted the appetite of scholars and laymen alike.”
According to “the prince”, Mazandarani’s argument, in brief, was that if it has been possible for the verse in question to be understood in two different ways, that is because God — who for Mus
lims is the author of the Koran — intended the ambiguity.
“Indeed,” said Esfahani, continuing his commentary, though without making it clear whether he actually agreed with Mazandarani, “if God put it that way rather than another, and used the same form of words almost identically three times, it’s unthinkable that He could have done so by mistake, or incompetence, or accident, or ignorance of the language. If He did it, He must have done it deliberately!
“Having thus so to speak changed doubt into certainty and darkness into light, Mazandarani asked himself why God wanted to create this ambiguity. Why didn’t He tell his creatures plainly that the supreme name doesn’t exist? And Mazandarani answered his own question: if He expressed Himself equivocally it was not to deceive or mislead us — that too would be unthinkable! He couldn’t have let us believe the supreme name might exist if it didn’t. Therefore it necessarily does exist. And if the Most High doesn’t tell us so more explicitly it’s because His infinite wisdom commands Him to show the way only to those who deserve it. When they read the verse in question, as when they read many others in the Koran, most people will go on thinking they’ve understood all there was to understand. But the elect, the initiates, will be able to slip through the subtle door He has left ajar for their benefit.
“Judging that he’d established beyond all possible doubt that the hundredth name exists, and that God doesn’t forbid us to try to find it, Mazandarani promised his followers to say in a book what it is not and what it is.”
“And did he write the book?” I asked, not very comfortably.
“There again opinions differ. Some people say he never did write it. Others say he did, and that it’s called The Book of the Hundredth Name, or A Treatise on the Hundredth Name, or The Unveiling of the Hidden Name.”
“I had a book through my shop once with that title, but I don’t know if it was by Mazandarani.” Again, I couldn’t be more truthful without giving myself away.
“Have you still got it?”
“No. Before I could read it an emissary from the King of France asked for it and I gave it to him.”
“If I’d been you I wouldn’t have given it away before I’d read it. But don’t worry — no doubt it was a forgery.”
I think I’ve reproduced what Esfahani said pretty faithfully, at least in the main, for our conversation lasted three whole hours.
I think he was speaking frankly, and I intend to be as sincere myself in our future exchanges. I shall go on asking questions, though, because I’m sure he knows much more than he’s told me so far.
21 May
A really hopeless sort of day.
While yesterday brought me pleasure and information, today produced nothing but disappointment and vexation.
As soon as I woke up I felt queasy. Perhaps it was a recurrence of sea-sickness, brought on by the bumping of the ship. Or perhaps I ate too many of those Persian sweetmeats yesterday evening, cooked with pine kernels, pistachio nuts, chick peas and cardamum.
I felt so out of sorts I decided to spend the day fasting and reading in my cramped quarters.
I’d have liked to continue my conversation with “the prince”, but I wasn’t fit for any kind of company. To console myself, I reflected that it might be best not to seem too eager. He might be put off if he thought I was trying to pump him for information.
Early in the afternoon, when everyone else would be taking a siesta, I decided to take a turn round the deck; it was, as I’d hoped, deserted. Then suddenly I saw the captain a few paces away, leaning back against the rail and apparently deep in thought. I didn’t want to have to talk to him, but neither did I want to look as if I was avoiding him. So I walked steadily on, bowing politely as I passed him. He bowed back, but rather absent-mindedly. To fill the silence, I asked him when we were going to put in at a port, and where.
It seemed to me a perfectly natural question, the most obvious one for a passenger to put to a captain. But Centurione turned on me suspiciously.
“Why do you ask? What are you after?”
Why does a passenger ever want to know where his ship is bound? But I smiled as I explained, almost apologetically:
“I didn’t buy enough provisions at our last port of call, and I’m starting to run short of some things.”
“It’s your own fault! Passengers ought to have a bit of foresight.”
He seemed almost ready to give me a box on the ear. I mustered such patience and politeness as I had left, took leave of him and walked away.
An hour later he sent Maurizio to me with some soup.
Even if I’d been in perfect health I wouldn’t have gone near it. Today, with my upset stomach …
I asked the young sailor to convey my thanks, but at the same time launched a few well-chosen sarcasms in the captain’s direction. But Maurizio pretended not to hear, so I had to act as if I hadn’t said anything.
So much for my day, and now I’m just sitting here with my pen in my hand and tears in my eyes. All of a sudden I feel bereft of everything.
Dry land, Gibelet, Smyrna, Genoa, Marta, even Gregorio.
A really hopeless sort of day.
24 May
We’re anchored in Tangiers, beyond Gibraltar and the Pillars of Hercules. It’s recently come under the English crown — though I admit I didn’t know that until this morning. For a couple of centuries it belonged to Portugal, which acquired it by force, but when the Infanta Catherine of Braganza married King Charles four or five years ago she brought him two fortresses in her dowry — Tangiers was one, the other was Bombay in India. I’m told the English officers who’ve been sent here dislike the place, which they cry down and dismiss as a worthless acquisition.
But the town itself struck me as charming, with its broad straight streets lined with well-built houses. There are also fields of orange and lemon trees which give off a wonderful heady perfume. Tangiers’ mildness derives from its singular situation at the crossroads between four different climates, close to both the Mediterranean and the Atlantic, both the Atlas mountains and the desert. In my opinion, any king would be glad to possess such a place. Walking round, I met an elderly Portuguese burgess who was born here and refused to leave when his king’s soldiers went. His name is Sebastiao Magalhaes — I wonder if he’s a descendant of the famous navigator? No, he would have told me. It was he who told me what people were whispering, adding that he was sure the English officers’ mockery is entirely due to the fact that their king’s wife is a “Papist”: some of them think the Pope himself secretly promoted the marriage in an attempt to win England back to Rome.
But according to my interlocutor there’s another explanation for the marriage: Portugal is constantly at war with Spain, and Spain still hopes to reconquer Portugal, so Portugal is always trying to strengthen its links with its enemy’s enemies.
I’d promised myself that as I couldn’t do so aboard ship, I’d entertain my Persian and Venetian friends royally when we reached our first port of call. I meant to find out beforehand what were the best places to go to, so I took advantage of my meeting with Master Magalhaes to ask his advice. He said at once that I’d be welcome at his house. I thanked him, but told him I had several invitations to return and would feel awkward to set sail again without having repaid my debts to my friends. But he wouldn’t listen.
“If you’d had a brother here, wouldn’t you have invited them to his place? Well, consider that to be the case, and you may be sure you and your friends will be much better off chatting in my library than in some tavern in the harbour.”
25 May
I couldn’t add anything to my journal yesterday evening. It was dark by the time I got back from Magalhaes’ house, and I’d eaten and drunk too much to be able to write.
Our host had even pressed us to stay the night, which would have made a pleasant change from all the nights we’ve spent in beds being bumped up and down all the time. But I was afraid the captain might take it into his head to sail before dawn, so I preferred to decline
the invitation.
It’s midnight now, and the ship is still moored to the quay. Everything is quiet. I don’t think we can be about to leave.
Yesterday evening passed pleasantly enough, but the fact that we had no language in common rather spoiled things. Of course, Father Angel was there to act as interpreter for his master, but he didn’t over-exert himself. Some of the time he was busy eating. At other times he hadn’t been listening and was obliged to ask us to repeat what we’d said. At other times again he would translate a long speech by just a couple of words, either because he couldn’t remember it all or because he disapproved of some of it.
For instance, at one point Esfahani, who was very interested in Muscovy and what the Venetian had to say about its people and their customs, wanted to know what religious differences there were between Orthodox and Catholic believers. Girolamo started to explain the Patriarch of Moscow’s arguments against the Pope, but Father Angel didn’t like having to repeat that kind of thing, and when Durrazzi said that the Muscovites, like the English, referred to the Pope as the Antichrist, the priest went red in the face, dropped his knife with a clatter, and said to the Venetian, his voice trembling:
“You’d do better to learn Persian and say such things for yourself. I don’t propose to soil my lips or the prince’s ear with them.”